Down the Rabbit Hole
by blindkitten
Summary: In an encounter with a witch, Sam ends up caught in a spell that lets him see six "what-if"s, alternate universes that could have happened. Along the way, he may learn something. Post What Is and What Never Should Be, rated to be safe. ON HIATUS  ish
1. An Offer Of Pie

_So I don't really know how this'll work out, but I've had this story sort of in my head for a while now, and I figured I might as well give it a try. _

_Disclaimer: I don't own anything_

One second he's investigating a series of murders with his brother, talking to a possible witch who looks too shy and utterly too helpful to have any idea of what she's doing if she's even doing it at all. The next his long arms have knocked a glass from the counter and she's looking horrified at the puddle and then he's on the floor and it's dark and the girl and Dean are nowhere to be seen.

And it's not even the weirdest thing that's happened to him.

That is, until he stands up and walks (literally) straight through his mother by accident.

-X-

Dean, in the meantime, was freaking out. Of course, he would never, ever say so, but seeing his brother collapse on the floor always did it for him. Within a moment, he had his gun out and pointed at the probably-witch. Her eyes almost popped from her head and she threw up her hands. "Oh my god, I am so, so sorry, I really should clean up after myself, but, uh… I'm so sorry!" she squeaked.

"The hell did you do to him?" Dean growled.

The girl, Charlotte Whateverherlastnamewas, looked at him for a moment. "Well, technically, he knocked it over himself…" he bared down on her with the fury of a very protective Dean Winchester and she shrank down in terror. "Okay, okay, sorry, I'm sorry, it's just a little spell!"

"Yeah, I figured that out, thanks! What kind of spell?" he roared.

She made a thoughtful face. "That might take some explaining," she said slowly, then squealed back into panic when he brought another hand to his gun. "But I swear, it won't hurt him at all. I've already tried it on myself."

Dean narrowed his eyes at her, trying to determine if she was telling the truth. "Fine then," he said, not lowering the gun. "What is it?"

"I have a couple of clients that pay to know what if, so I cook this little thing up. It shows you alternate universes. Six of them, precisely."

Dean stared at her. "Wait… like… the real deal?"

She shrugged. "Far as I can tell. It shows you exactly what would have happened if A had happened instead of B, if you know what I mean."

Dean just kept staring. "You can't be serious."

She shrugged. "Hey, it works well enough. I can't exactly fact check, can I?"

He paused, rubbing at his face. "Alright," he said finally. "How do you undo it?"

She gaped at him. "You're kidding, right? I start screwing with this, I could seriously hurt him. Wait it out. He'll be up and at it again in two, three days."

Dean's hand tightened on the gun again, eyes narrowing. "Yeah, see, you're the number one suspect for murder. Nice, gritty little murders. So no, I'm not just going to chill out and let your freaky little spell do whatever to my brother."

She nodded, confused. "So you'd rather I tried a lot more spells that I don't even know how to use hoping to undo the one might be harmless?"

Dean's mouth opened and closed soundlessly, searching for something good to retort. "No," he finally managed, humiliated but determined not to show it.

"Yeah, that's what I thought." She sighed sympathetically. "Listen, I've got a brother. I get it. If you want, you can crash in the bedroom, I'll take the sofa. And I swear I'm not a murderer. I'm not even a demon worshiper. You can look at my spell books. Not a satanic word in them." Dean hesitated. She sure did seem earnest, even if she was a witch, but he certainly didn't want to lug his sleeping and/or unconscious brother into a motel room, and he certainly didn't want more spells done to him. "I'll throw in a blue berry pie, too."

Dean sighed. "Fine. But if something bad happens to him, I will kill you. Slowly."

She grinned. "Deal."

-X-

Sam had been spending the last minute trying to touch anything, but it seemed like he was the ghost in this scenario. He looked back into the nursery, where he was wailing as a baby. He just hoped this wasn't that night, even though as he wandered, he started to see the signs. Dad downstairs, asleep at the TV, Dean occasionally wobbling out of bed on stubby legs to stroke Sam's face with little fingers.

By the time baby-Sam started to cry, Sam was going insane. He ran upstairs, wishing he could call out, warn his mother…

But there was no fire. She fed him, tucked Dean back into bed when he peeked in the door, and nothing happened. He was left staring at the crib, baffled.

Suddenly, the world shifted around him, colors blurring to grey, up indistinguishable from down. He blinked it away, arms windmilling slightly to get his balance. He blinked a few times to make sure he wasn't seeing things. There, in the lawn of the Lawrence house was his mother, hand on his own three-year-old back, guiding him along the sidewalk.

He laughed disbelievingly. Of course, he had to have been seeing things. But he'd never dreamed his vividly, and he knew he had never lived this. "Witches," he muttered under his breath.

A small Dean hurried up to his mother, one arm twisting around her leg as he whispered something quietly to her. Sam smiled. Dean's blonde hair was longer and scattered around in small curls. Sam didn't remember him being this small, but he had seen pictures, all of them where Dean was trying to be tough like his father, but there was something still so Dean-like about the shy way he clung to his mother.

Mary bent down, kissing Dean on the forehead, then walked inside, leaving Dean with the tiny little Sam. Dean watched Sam carefully, protective as ever. Sam had to smile at that. And then he lurched forward when the little Sam stumbled into the street, right under a car that had no chance of stopping in time.

"Sammy!" Dean cried, diving into his brother and knocking him so that he rolled under the car, between the tires. He himself was not so lucky, the car slamming him into the air before it could screech to a stop. Sam and Sammy made the same moves, both running for Dean and both coming to a stop before their shattered brother.

Sam blinked away tears. "Oh, God, Dean," he whispered. This couldn't be true. Their mother survived only to have them lose Dean to a _car?_ "Please don't be dead." But it was hard to look at the inside of someone's skull and still hope they were alive.

_Good? Bad? Review!_


	2. Dead or Alive?

_So I've already got some great reviews – thanks, guys! I'm going to have fun with this idea, and I'm glad it seems most people agree._

_Disclaimer: Because I totally didn't disclaim last chapter or anything._

It was the best pie he'd ever eaten, and he was a little guilty about enjoying it so much while Sam was unconscious. He eyed Charlotte suspiciously. "This is really just pie, right?" he asked.

"Just pie," she said. "Only spice in it is nutmeg. I'm allergic to cinnamon."

"That's a weird allergy to have," Dean mumbled.

"Right?" She grinned at him, smile fading slightly when she realized he was still glaring. He had, in fact, looked over all her books. They were mostly Native American or European folklore books, telling about the rumored powers of certain herbs. Nothing even remotely demonic, not even a five pointed star or odd looking symbol anywhere, but he was still wary on principle alone. "OK, then, Mr. Trust Issues."

"Well, something in this town is killing people," he growled at her.

"All I know is what was in the papers," she said. She fidgeted slightly in her seat. "That and there _is _this sort of scary pack of… domestic wives, y'know?"

He looked at her, interest piqued. "Come again?"

-X-

The driver was a paramedic. There was no question about it, the occupation ringing in her calmness, the way she immediately took a pulse. "Alright, sweetie, what's your name?" she asked the little Sam.

"Sammy," he replied. He wasn't crying, but that was probably just because of shock. That was the reason older Sam wasn't.

"Alright, Sammy, are your parents home?" He nodded. "Do you live right there?" He nodded again. "OK, now I'm going to ask you to be very, very brave now." She guided his hands to Dean's head and pressed them down. "You need to keep your hands there while I get your parents and an ambulance, good?"

Sammy nodded, swallowing and trying not to look where his hands were. The woman stood and hurried to the front door while Sammy sat, not moving his hands even an inch, sobbing quietly. Sam couldn't look either, kneeling beside his younger self and gently bringing his hand as close to the small, shaking back as he could without sliding through it.

Mary was outside in a moment, kneeling beside Dean with only a few tears on her face, forcing herself into a calmness. "Sam, you can let go now, this nice lady will take care of Dean now, alright?"

John came up beside Sammy, lifting him up, passing through Sam as he went. "Shh, buddy, it's OK, you did real good, alright?"

The ambulance arrived not a minute after and there were suddenly paramedics everywhere, the driver explaining the situation with a special professionalism. "We can take one extra," a man said, and Mary was instantly on her feet.

"I'm going. John, take Sam and meet us there." John nodded, hugging Sammy closer to him.

"Here is my number and address. Let me know how he is when you can," the driver said quietly, and John accepted the small note with a quiet thank you, more focused on getting into the car.

The world faded in and out of focus again, settling in a hospital waiting room again. Sam looked around, trying to find his family. John and Mary were sitting in a corner, crying silently, while Sammy was off by the window, head bowed and little hands pressed together. "God, please don't take my brother, he was just trying to save me. Amen," he whispered.

Sam chuckled sadly at that. "Amen," he repeated.

"Family of Dean Winchester?" a voice called out. Sammy rushed over to John as they walked over to the doctor. He looked at them, then said, "Maybe we should speak in my office."

They consented silently, the doctor leading the way and offering them seats in the office. He sat down and sighed. "I'll be frank with you," he said. "When they first brought in your son, I thought it was a lost cause." Mary sobbed quietly, covering her mouth with her hand. John brought his free hand up to squeeze hers, his other arm around Sammy. "But," the doctor said, asking for patience. "I'm glad I operated. Your son is going to make it."

"Oh, thank God," Mary sobbed, looking ready to collapse. Sam almost did, watching from the door.

The doctor held up his hand. "This won't be easy," he warned. "Dean has had extensive brain damage. He may never walk or speak again. He may have seizures and migraines for the rest of his life. We won't know entirely until he wakes, which won't be for a while. We currently have him put under until his brain can heal."

John nodded, rubbing circles on Mary's hand. "We understand," he croaked. "Can we see him?"

The doctor nodded. "Just know that there are a lot of machines and he did just undergo surgery. It can be a slightly shocking sight."

"We understand," John said again, his voice this time sounding like an echo of the last time he'd said it. Sam wondered if he really did understand or if this was just a haze for all of them. This wasn't even his world and he was already spinning with it all. Suddenly, he realized that wasn't him. It was the scene change again.

He was in the hospital room, Dean laid up in the bed. There were few machines around him – he must have been taken off the respirator, which meant they were weaning him out of the coma. He'd missed a while, he realized. The whole family was crowded around Dean's bed, and yet it was Sammy who first noticed Dean stir. "Dean!" he cried.

Dean painstakingly wrenched his eyes open, blinking at Sammy. He tried to sit up, but didn't get much further than moving his arm slightly before collapsing back into the pillows. "Shh," Mary whispered, stroking his hair. "Shh, it's OK, sweetheart, just relax, you're safe."

Dean's eyes focused on her lips oddly, as though he was having trouble understanding the words coming out of them. A faint confusion settled over his face, and he tried to speak, coming up only with a few strangled sounds. Mary shushed him again, eyes teary. "It's OK, everything's OK," she whispered, voice cracking slightly.

He looked panicked for a moment, and Sam could feel his own tears. How must it feel to suddenly be incapable of coming up with words? Especially for Dean, who liked to put his two cents in for everything, liked to lend comfort and humor to hard situations with a few good words. But eventually, his mother's voice and touch spoke the words he had trouble understanding, and he calmed, watching them silently, clearly glad they were there.

The scene shifted. John was helping Dean stand, hands on Dean's arms and Dean swayed dangerously. "Whoa, there, tiger. You're doing great," John encouraged, and Dean put more weight on his feet, tears streaming with frustration at how hard it was. But in true Dean fashion, he gritted his teeth and pushed John away gently, using the bed as a support to clamber painfully to Mary, who had her arms outstretched.

"That's my boy, that's my Dean," she said, tears of happiness falling from her smiling face as Dean tumbled into her arms, exhausted.

Sam and Sammy sat beside her, marveling. Sammy reached out a hand to wipe away Dean's tears of frustration and joy alike, planting a soft, slobbery kiss on Dean's cheek. "That was amazing, Dean," he whispered, hero worship in his voice.

"You have no idea, kid," he told his younger self, knowing all the other things Dean was capable of. There was nothing Dean couldn't do. He was proclaimed a goner, he survived. He'd never walk again, here he was walking. It was only a matter of time before he'd be chattering away again, too.

He looked at Dean, practically glowing in all the praise and wondered if Dean knew that as well as he did.

The transitions were getting smoother between scenes now, because he didn't feel dizzy at all when they were back in the Lawrence house. John and Mary were helping Dean in, and though he was still too shaky to go it solo, they were barely supporting him. "I just don't think a growing boy should be on medication all the time. How do we know those pills don't have worse side effects than the seizures?" Mary was saying. Dean didn't react, entirely focused on walking.

"Mary, you saw those seizures. They were awful, for all of us!"

"I know! Do you really think they didn't hurt me as much as they did you? I'm just saying we should ask someone else before we do this. A second opinion, John, that's all I'm asking."

Dean's knees buckled and he went down, struggling to get up but failing. He cried out in frustration, trying one more time to no avail. John bent down. "Shh, tiger, it's alright, you did good," he said, more softly than Sam had ever seen him. "I'll carry you the rest of the way, don't you worry."

He picked up Dean, who gently rubbed at his eyes, still shaking with anger and despair.

Sam flinched at the scene. Dean, who never let himself be carried when he was conscious. How hard was this for him? He looked at Mary. Of course, he wasn't the same Dean, hadn't been forced into toughness from age four, but there was enough of that stubbornness in him that Sam knew this wasn't easy for him. How could it be?

Sammy ran in, taking his mother's hand. "Can I still sleep with Dean now that he's home?" he asked, letting himself be picked up by Mary.

She touched her forehead to his. "Of course, pumpkin, you always can."

The next scene had to have been a few months later – Sammy was looking a little older, Dean was walking unaided, though still slowly, like an old man. Mary had out a math book, carefully placing a pencil into Dean's hand. He struggled to hold onto it correctly, but he made not even a noise of complaint, looking up at her expectantly. "Alright, now, your teachers told me that you've been doing multiplication, do you remember that? It's been a little while now, so it's alright if you don't."

Dean nodded, watching for a task. His eyes were focused entirely on her mouth, as though he needed the extra visual to understand what she was saying. "Alright, then, how well do you know that?" she asked. Dean shrugged. She smiled. "Can you do 381 times 43?" She asked teasingly.

Dean was silent, putting the pencil down as though it required too much thought to hold it and do math simultaneously. He put out his fingers as though counting, then picked up the pencil and carefully scratched out 16383. Mary took the pencil, brows furrowed, and wrote out the multiplication, blinking when she received the same answer. "Dean, did you do that in your head?" she asked. He nodded.

She stared at him. "Dean that's brilliant," she said. He brightened at the praise, clearly ready for more if it would make his mother happy. "Alright." She paused, standing. "New plan. How about we do something a little harder?" She stood and went into another room for a while, then came back. "This is my algebra book from high school. You're lucky I still have it." She pulled up a chair beside Dean. "Now, algebra is a bit harder, but only because we don't always know the numbers, so we give them names, like letters, instead. Does that make sense?"

Dean nodded, pulling the book from her hands and looking into it. "Alright, let's just start slowly and do some of these problems, alright?"

Sam frowned. Dean doing math? He chuckled. Then he almost cried. Of course Dean didn't care about schoolwork. John didn't care about schoolwork. He cared about hunting, which Dean was amazing at. Or course Dean was a genius. Building an EMF detector by himself? That was genius. And Sam had scoffed at it. Shrugged off one little shine of genius that had been dulled by Dean's need to be valued and John's obsession.

So Sam sat on the floor instead and watched his brother learn algebra at age seven, because that was the closest he could get to the respect Dean deserved.

_Tada. These will probably be shortish chapters, because I never know when I can fit time into real life for this story. I do, however, want to update frequently, so… compromise! Yay! :D_

_Please review! It helps me know how I'm doing and motivates me to write more!_


	3. Contrasts

_So, yeah. We're going to Puerto Rico for a week, so it's packing central in my homely home right now, and I don't know when this will be finished… but I'm working on it as fast as I can! :D Thanks to those who reviewed – you're awesome!_

_Disclaimer: I don't own nuthin'._

"Oh my god, Mrs. Hepburn is a murder!" Charlotte squeaked, sitting down on the couch.

Dean raised an eyebrow at her. "You gave me the tip to start with," he reminded her. Her dark brown hair was sticking all over the place with the memory of her crazed kneading of it.

"But I didn't actually think she was a demonic psycho killer!" Charlotte's voice raised an octave with panic. "Oh my god, she buys my pies on Sundays!"

"I doubt she uses your pies for anything evil."

"You don't know that!" Charlotte leaped up, running a hand through her hair again. "What if my pies have been used for _death?_"

Dean resisted the urge to snigger at that. It was certainly a question he'd never been asked before. "How did you even get into this whole… magic thing?" he asked.

Charlotte looked at him, wide eyed. "What?" she asked, baffled for a moment. "Oh. Yeah." She pushed her hand into her hair. "There was this psychic named Missouri in my town who helped me fend off the poltergeist next door." She giggled slightly, as though it still sounded ridiculous.

Dean just stared. There had to be a point at which something was just too improbable, but the limit didn't seem to exist for Winchesters. "Could you repeat… that whole sentence?"

-X-

"There's no way," Sam whispered, staring at the little girl eating dinner at this house. She couldn't have been more than a year younger than Dean, maybe half as tall, with a little embroidered blouse and braids running down her head on either side, but the features were unmistakable, even the awkward little shuffle as she pushed her blouse back into her skirt, nervously regarding Sam and Dean.

Sammy smiled at her, looking about five at this point, and turned back to watch Dean's frustrated attempts to hold a knife steady enough to cut his food. Charlotte had a little brother too, blonde haired and blue eyed but otherwise a carbon copy of her, maybe a little younger than Sam. Her mother was tiny, hair cropped short, her father big, broad-shouldered and bearded.

Sammy finally intervened in the cutting of foot, silently taking the knife from Dean. Dean looked up, met Charlotte's eyes, then looked away again, shy and ashamed. Charlotte remained quiet, looking as though she wanted to offer comfort but couldn't think of anything. The parents were talking about the neighborhood, the local elementary school and the nearby college, and Sam got the impression that Charlotte's family had just moved in.

"Charlie, my sock has a hole in it," the little brother mumbled, looking down at his little toe. Charlotte reached down and pinched his foot gently, receiving a little squeal and a death glare that was impressive for a four or five year old.

Dean took the moment of distraction to pull back his utensils from Sammy and regain some of his dignity by eating on his own. Charlotte notice and smiled gently. "I like your eyes," she said, her voice high and quiet.

Dean choked slightly and smiled back. Charlotte faded back into awkwardness and turned back to her food. There was not another word spoken between the two of them that night, and Sammy and the other little brother were left to play with toy cars while the elder siblings watched, bringing a smile to Sam's face as he watched, sitting on the floor.

The scene soon faded, jumping a few years. Sammy had to have been six now, starting to look less like a baby and more like an older child while Dean was starting to look lanky and ready to be a preteen. It was the first time in all of these scenes that they seemed to be at home alone, and Sam wondered where John and Mary could be.

Sammy was curled up by the kitchen stove, reading a book surprisingly thick for his age while Dean finished up breakfast. Suddenly, his fork dropped, and he pushed the chair back, looking nauseous. Sammy looked up. "Dean?" he asked.

Dean didn't react, swallowing breaths nervously and staring at the floor. Sammy stood, placing the book on the table. "Are you about to have a seizure?" Sammy asked. Dean nodded, and Sammy didn't hesitate before helping him from the chair and onto the floor. Dean's foot twitched nervously, but Sammy ignored it, laying him down and folding his sweater under his head.

There had been times when Sam had been left alone in the car while Dean and John had gone on hunts. He remembered those times, sitting in the Impala with rifle balanced against his knees, hoping the scratching on the windows was just the bushes in the wind, wondering if this would be the hunt where the prey became predator and killed his brother and father just to have a chance at him.

There was a certain similarity between those times and the one he was watching now. Knees tucked under the chin, tenseness in every muscle and eyes too afraid to be closed. Give him a rifle, and Sammy would have been the same boy he once was, helpless to do anything but watch his brother seize and twitch, eyes rolled back and teeth clenched. Sam sat with him, not really existent but still offering his support in the ways that he could.

Finally it was over. Sammy stood quickly, grabbing a bottle of pills and a glass of water. "Here," he offered to Dean, who was panting and shaking. "Do you need them for the headache?"

Dean nodded faintly, gulping them down. Sammy's hand were quivering as well, and Dean set down the cup to wrap his hands around Sam's. He smiled, then made a quiet hissing sound. Sam and Sammy both watched him intently. He was trying to make an 's.' Dean's brow furrowed in determination, and Sammy's hand tightened on his. "S-sa-sam…" Dean took a breath. "Sammy."

Sammy's mouth hung open for a while. "Dean," he said, his voice choked, tears starting to come to his eyes. Dean watched him, looking frightened that he had done something wrong. "Dean, you said my name."

He collapsed into sobs, pulling Dean into his arms. Dean looked confused at best, letting himself be pulled whichever way Sammy wanted. His hands twitched, unsure whether to hug back or let himself be held. It seemed he still wasn't sure if he had done the right thing by speaking. Sammy held him close, sniffing. "Dean, you're the best brother ever," he burbled, planting a kiss in Dean's hair. "You're amazing." Another kiss.

Sam grinned at the look on Dean's face. He looked like a deer in the headlights, baffled and elated at the same time. He reached up slowly to hug Sammy back, relaxing into his arms, looking deeply proud of himself. By the time John and Mary came home, he was asleep in Sammy's arms, still on the kitchen floor. "He said my name," Sammy told them as soon as they were in the door. "He said it."

-X-

Dean was fourteen, then, on the sofa, rifling through his backpack, muttering softly to himself. Sammy thundered down the stairs. He came to a stop in front of Dean. "Are you checking that you have everything _again?_" he asked, sounding exasperated.

Dean looked up. "This is my first day of school in seven years," he said. He was much quieter than Sam's Dean was, and a lot thinner as well. His hair was longer, though not nearly as long as Sam's, and clearly trying to be marginally neat and failing. "I just don't want to screw it up."

Sammy sighed, bouncing onto the sofa beside Dean. "Dude. You're a genius, you're likable, and you're good looking. What could possibly go wrong?" Dean shrugged, looking green around the edges. Sammy rolled his eyes. "You'll be fine." He nudged Dean gently with his shoulder. "Hey, if it makes you feel better, maybe you can wear dad's leather jacket to school."

Dean gave Sammy a look. "Sammy, can you really see me in Dad's jacket?"

Sammy shrugged. "Just a suggestion. Hey, when do you think I'll be big enough to wear it?"

Dean snorted. "Sammy, I'm pretty sure you're gonna be short forever."

"Shut up."

And by that point, Sam was pretty sure he'd be laughing forever. He couldn't wait to get back to _his_ Dean and tell him just how adorable he was in this world. Dean would probably kill him, but it would be worth it.

-X-

Someone had put up a calendar in the kitchen, making it easier for Sam to draw parallels between his world and this one. This, for example, was the day he and John had had their first big, earth-rending fight, a few days before his thirteenth birthday, and yet here he was eating bologna sandwiches with his father in amicable silence.

"Hey, Dad?" Sammy asked suddenly, pushing at a tooth with his tongue. "When did Dean loose his last baby tooth?"

John thought. "Oh, I don't know. I think he was thirteen." He looked up. "Why? You got a loose one?"

Sammy nodded. "Yeah, I think it's moving a little. It's my last one."

"We could pull it if you want," John said. Sammy looked contemplative. "I'll go get pliers."

"You think they'll work?"

"Only one way to find out."

Sammy grinned. "Let's do it."

Sam watched as they hurried to get pliers, looking like two conspiring boys. How that had happened, Sam had no idea. He leaned back and thought through the reasons he had always butted heads with John. A lot of it was hunting – and a lot was just a need for independence. Of course, hunting wasn't there, which meant John wouldn't have viewed his children as soldiers. He was probably the hands-off parent, the one who would let him do anything within reason (and a little without). Besides, Sam had always been so similar to John in a lot of ways. He shook his head. Who would have thought?

They came back into the kitchen, looking eager. "You want a Tylenol?" John asked.

"Nah, just take it out, I think it's loose anyway."

It couldn't have been too loose, Sam thought, since they had been at it for a long while now and hadn't managed to free anything but a small amount of blood. "Maybe we could take a hammer to the pliers," Sammy suggested. "One for the grip and one to knock it out."

John shrugged. "Yeah, sure, let's do that." He went and got a hammer and they were at it again. It took a while and a lot of protest and squeaking and some quickly caught curses, but they finally managed to get out a nicely bloodied tooth, just as Dean walked in.

"Hah!" John cried out in victory, holding the pliers up into the air, tooth still clamped into them. Sammy's eyes widened and he managed a quick, "Oh, hi Dean," before Dean folded in a dead faint. Mary seemed to think this was the perfect moment to walk in, taking in the entire scene and running to rouse Dean.

"_What_ are you doing?" she said, looking at them over her shoulder.

"Um…" Sammy managed. "Pulling teeth?"

She glared at him coldly. "I can see that, Samuel Winchester."

"Well," John said sheepishly. "At least we got it out, right?"

_This chapter felt a little disjointed, but to be fair, I wrote it with very little sleep and when I started editing (with more sleep), I wasn't really sure what to do with it, so I just figured I'd leave it the way it was. Anywho, I hope you liked it! _


End file.
